Simmons spoke loudly and clearly, but he could feel the pulse beating in his neck. He waited until the hubbub died down and a heavy silence had enveloped him like a cold, wet mist before continuing. ‘The truth of the matter is that after all these years, we still really don’t understand cancer that well and we certainly can’t cure it.’
Gerald Montague took on an air of righteous indignation. ‘Personally, I find that an extremely negative view of things and even downright insulting to the many excellent scientists who dedicate themselves to the cure of this dreadful disease,’ he said.
‘Hear, hear,’ agreed Graham Sutcliffe.
Steven Paxton appeared bemused. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose I assumed that the programme would automatically reflect a positive attitude. I didn’t realise there was disagreement. We hear such a lot about breakthroughs these days.’
‘They’re usually diagnostic,’ said Simmons flatly. ‘Medical science can tell you sooner that you have an incurable disease, but still can’t do anything about it.’
‘But...’
‘Science, like so many other professions these days, has discovered that image can triumph over substance and is a damned sight easier to generate. Many scientists are dressing up largely technical progress as ‘breakthroughs’, when they are not what the public understand by ‘breakthroughs’, and certainly not what disease sufferers understand by the term. They announce their findings and hit all the right buttons so the press will pick up on it, but if you look carefully at the text, you’ll come across give-aways like Work is at a very early stage and Hopefully within three to five years this will lead to improved treatments — three to five years being the average span of the new research grant that they are really angling for — and the chances are that it won’t.’
‘What an utterly cynical view,’ said Sutcliffe.
‘I call it realistic.’
‘I agree with Frank,’ said Jack Martin, attracting a look of gratitude from Simmons, to whom the rest of the room now appeared hostile. ‘Real progress when it comes to cancer has been extremely limited.’
‘Are either of you willing to put this point of view across on the programme?’ asked Paxton. There was another deathly silence in the room.
‘No,’ said Simmons. ‘It was never my intention to take part in the programme. I have nothing positive to report, but I felt compelled to try and put the brakes on those who would have the public believe that a cure is just around the corner. It isn’t. On the other hand, I recognise that being negative could be as damaging to patient morale as being absurdly positive without cause. It would serve no point to say what I really think on air.’
‘Then I would have thought that your being here any longer serves no purpose,’ said Sutcliffe, clearly angry at what had gone before.
Both Simmons and Martin left the room.
‘You might have warned me you were going to do that,’ hissed Martin when the door closed behind them.
Simmons shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t mean to. It was just that Montague hitting the bullshit button so soon really got to me.’
‘You didn’t make many friends in there.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Simmons. ‘I feel better, as if I’d just owned up to something that’s been bugging me for ages and now I’m out in the open about it. Incidentally, I’m grateful for the way you backed me up.’
‘You can’t argue with the truth. Catch you later.’
Simmons watched Martin walk off before returning to the lab, collecting his things and going home. He told the others in the lab that he wasn’t feeling well — not untrue, although there was nothing physically wrong with him.
Jenny was having a sandwich for lunch after her morning stint at the surgery and was sitting in the kitchen when he got in. She was flicking through the previous weekend’s copy of a Sunday supplement.
‘Smug bastards,’ she said. ‘Look at them, sitting on their cream leather sofas on their reclaimed wooden flooring, looking pleased with themselves, bleating about the old mill they’ve just rescued which has been lying derelict since the fifth century BC.’
‘I get jealous too,’ said Simmons.
‘So what are you doing home at this time?’
‘My tongue ran away with me.’
‘Oh dear. Dare I ask?’
Simmons told her what he had said at the meeting and Jenny shrugged, ‘Well, it was true, wasn’t it?’
‘I think so.’
‘So what’s to feel bad about?’
‘Nothing, I suppose, when you put it that way. I was expecting you to give me a lecture about learning to live in the real world and keeping my mouth shut where authority is concerned — like you keep saying Gavin should do.’
‘There’s a world of difference between expressing genuine concern and what Gavin comes out with simply because he has a chip on his shoulder about being working class in a middle-class environment.’
‘Strikes me he’s getting better and I’m getting worse.’
‘You’ll probably end up meeting in the middle and becoming lifelong buddies.’
‘Gavin’s okay. Different, but okay.’
‘Yes, dear. Did anyone support you this morning?’
‘Jack Martin.’
‘Good for him. I’m surprised you didn’t go off to the pub with him instead of coming home.’
‘Maybe it’s a different kind of comfort I’m looking for...’ said Simmons. He reached out and caressed the outline of Jenny’s bottom as she stood with her back to him.
‘Oh, is it?’ she said, not sounding entirely averse to the idea.
Simmons squeezed her bottom.
‘Will you buy me an old mill and furnish it with leather sofas and reclaimed wooden flooring?’
‘Yes.’
‘Liar,’ giggled Jenny. ‘Whatever happened to the high moral values of a moment ago?’
‘A regrettable lapse,’ replied Simmons, getting to his feet and escorting her towards the stairs.
Gavin finished the first part of the biochemistry protocol he was following and put the beaker containing his cell preparation in the fridge. It was just after four o’clock so he thought he’d take a chance and phone Caroline.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Conception,’ she replied.
‘What?’
‘Conception, growth and development. I’ve got an exam tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m just clearing up. I thought you might fancy a coffee?’
‘Could do, I could do with a break, but then I’ll have to spend the rest of the evening on this stuff.’
‘Let’s go up to that little café in the High Street — the one that does the good scones?’
Caroline agreed, and they arranged to meet in ten minutes outside the medical school. It was another ten-minute walk to the café and Caroline was rubbing her hands in deference to the cold by the time they arrived. ‘Hope it’s warm in here,’ she said as she gripped the door handle.
It was, and the air was full of the comforting smell of home baking. Only two of the ten or so tables were occupied, one by an elderly couple who had kept on all their outdoor clothing, including hats and scarves, and the other by a mother with a two-year-old sitting in a push-chair beside her. She was keeping the child amused by blowing bubbles from a toy that comprised a plastic battery-operated fan and a small tub of soap solution. The child squealed with delight each time a stream of bubbles left the soap-filled loop. Gavin and Caroline found the laughter infectious: Gavin pretended to try to catch the bubble that drifted briefly in his direction and caused yet more laughter as he feigned complete incompetence.